


Youthful Naivety

by HomuraAkemi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, More of a slow burn, Young Hannibal, Young Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomuraAkemi/pseuds/HomuraAkemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You did it because of her. Not...not for her, but because of her."</p>
<p>He understands, and Hannibal makes a soft noise that can’t decide if it’s a growl or a sob.</p>
<p>"I might've done the same."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_He smells and tastes blood. Loud voices talk across each other, cruel laughter echoing through the filthy, tiled communal bathroom. The wood of a broomstick harshly connects with Hannibal’s back and he swallows a grunt as he’s being pushed into the cold, unforgiving floor by another of them, clenching shut his eyes. Arms reach up to protect his head, fingers lacing on the back of it, tense, so they can’t do worse damage. He doesn’t scream; no one would come to his rescue here, anyway._

_His silence only fuels them, it always does. There are three of them, this time; he’s known something like this would happen. They beat harder, wanting to hear him cry and beg, like their other victims, but he won’t give them the satisfaction, he wouldn’t even if he could. He never speaks to them. He never speaks to anyone, here. Perhaps he won’t ever speak to anyone again. The boy’s aware why they’re doing this; they haven’t taken well to the incident only yesterday, as deserved as it’s been, in his mind. Of course they haven’t. One doesn’t bully the small and weak, though, no matter what one’s been through. The war’s changed them all, but hurting someone who can’t fight back’s coward, and no solution. It’s barbarous and wrong. The fragile little boy’s been afraid, teary-eyed and trembling, but so relieved to see that his tormenter’s been shoved against the wall of the hallway, a fork being bored into the soft flesh of his cheek as he’s screamed, just as he’s been about to harm the small male once again, for no reason. They do it only to spread fright and anguish, so they can feel powerful. He won’t let them._

_He snaps when one of them roughly grips his arm to pull him up._

_Brown eyes narrow in anger and he lashes out, catching them off-guard, they aren’t used to resistance, and he’s concentrating on one of them. It all goes too fast, they barely have a chance to react. A sickening crack and a pained yelp panics them, wide eyes staring at their writhing fellow before they flinch and scatter, cursing, hurried footsteps growing quieter. The boy brushes the back of his hand across his mouth; he doesn’t try cleaning himself up further, now. Instead, Hannibal stands, wincing only slightly, and makes his way to bed, slowly, limping. Red obscures his vision still; the boy’s not sure if he’s bleeding. He still tastes copper on his tongue. He can’t sleep. He won’t sleep. Who knows what they’d try if he allowed himself to let his guard down. Hannibal doesn’t want to find out. The bed next to his own creaks but he doesn’t look up, gaze fixed on the stony, grey wall before him._

_Images begin to shift and blur, the walls of the house crumbling and turning to ash, floor vibrating and he clutches at the pillow, sitting up with a start as the orphanage disappears and he finds a snowscape in its stead, trees covered in frosty white, an old, wooden cottage. The icy cold wind hurts his cheeks, stinging his eyes but he can’t look away. He’s numb with fear and dread. They drag her away. She’s crying, fat tears rolling down her reddened cheeks, her face a scared, desperate grimace as she turns to look at him, pleading, struggling. She screams his name as they pull her away, farther and farther, and his legs won’t move, he can’t follow, he can’t save her. He wants to trash and shout and wail but no sound leaves his throat. He knows what they’ll do, he knows what’ll happen if he doesn’t stop them._

_Her cries are loud as a gunshot, ringing in his ears—_

Dark eyes shoot open wide, the gasp he can’t suppress is loud in the otherwise so quiet room. Blood’s rushing in the young male’s ears; his heart hammers in his chest. Fingers flex and curl into the sheets almost compulsively and slowly, so slowly, the images leave him as he realizes that his quivering limbs move, the ceiling of his room coming into view. The mattress beneath him is soft and comfortable; the bed utters not the softest of squeaks when he turns to his side. It’s warm; there’s a thick blanket tucked around his body. This house isn’t anything like that place, and he calms swiftly. The shaking stops; his heart beats slow and steady. The blond’s slightly relieved that he hasn’t uttered much of a sound; as comforting as it is to have Murasaki enter his room to pull him from his nightmares with her palms resting against his cheeks, a concerned expression on her face, it’s not necessary anymore. It’s shifted into an infrequent occurrence, mostly, that he sees things he won’t ever foget, at night. That they cause such a reaction.

It’s been a dream. Reality, back then, but now only a dream.

Now, the male can close his eyes again without sensing danger. No one here would threaten his well-being; he doesn’t want to cause them harm, either. France is a beautiful country, certainly a place worthy of being called his home. He’s learnt so much ever since his uncle’s brought him here; he’s been shown so many beautiful things. He’s been taken to museums and to the opera, been shown the art of ikebana. And Hannibal’s excelled at school. He’s been the youngest to ever been accepted into medical school, and no one’s regretted that decision. The young male’s been a prodigy through and through, due to the new chance he’s been given. It’s not fair.

He rubs his eyes.

It’s not yet morning; there’s no sunlight filtering through the curtains, though the moon’s bright enough to illuminate the room tonight. For now, however, the male doesn’t look at the pictures, the drawings of those men that he’s made and hung up, so he’d have them right before his eyes, his goal being kept in mind. He’ll find them, one by one. It’s not impossible; if it were he’d do it, anyway. True justice doesn’t exist in this world; though, Hannibal can help make things right. He doesn’t look at the small shrine for her, holding one of the last photographes he’s been able to save. He knows the way her lips curve into a shy but happy smile, the way her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, without having to glance at it. She’s been such an innocent, cheerful child—

He shakes his head.

The room’s his own – and he hasn’t had one for quite a while, back then, so it’s something he greatly appreciates - but it’s not his favorite room in the house.

Lips part in a silent sigh and Hannibal moves once more, feeling restless, to turn onto his back again. He’s been lucky, to have been brought here. Sometimes he wonders what’s happened to the other children, if they’ve been so lucky, as well, if some of them are still there, at the orphanage, should it still exist. The male hopes some of them have never managed to leave the confines of this place. He wonders, sometimes, what would’ve happened to him, if he’d have been forced to stay there.

Hannibal idly considers getting up and, passing through the dark corridor, head to the ancient suit of samurai armor which his aunt holds onto, that now has grown on him, as well. They’d kneel before it, together. This room has always been a source of peace and inspiration. He remembers the night he’s found her there, the first time, and how she’s started to teach him about her ancestors, and her views. Though, in the end he decides against coming there tonight, not wishing to unintentionally wake his aunt. He’s drifting in and out of sleep until it’s appropriate to rise. The bed’s neatly made and he’s dressed properly when he steps into the kitchen.

“Good morning.”

Murasaki offers a small, warm smile in return as he approaches her, a steaming mug held between her palms that she carefully lifts to her lips, taking a delicate sip. It smells of spices, soy, and fried meat – chicken – as well as tea, and the smallest hint of the perfume she’s fond of. Slowly but surely, Hannibal’s gotten used to pleasant mornings such as this. The chef fills a bowl for him, placing it on the table in front of him with a soft noise before heading back toward the stove, politely allowing them their privacy even though he remains in the same room. The blond likes him; not only for the meal ideas he shares with him. Hannibal thanks him and waits until his aunt gestures for him to sit, then takes a seat at the table, opposite of her, beginning to eat.

“Good morning, Hannibal.” She doesn’t ask if he’s slept well, and he’s glad for it. Knowing Murasaki, she probably sees it in his expression that he doesn’t guard much, when at home. Not here, with his family. Hiding from his aunt isn’t something he truly wants to do, and she wouldn’t appreciate it, either. “You’ll attend class today.” It was more of a statement than a question, a gentle yet unnecessary demand, and Hannibal treats it as such. “Study much, exams will approach more quickly than many students assume.” She wants him to do well; he won’t disappoint her. The blond nods duteously, intending to do just that. The study of medicine’s challenging but so very absorbing. It hasn’t been difficult, for him, to decide what he wishes to do for a living, later. The young male enjoys many things – music as well as art, which his uncle’s encouraged him to try and perfect, before he’s died – and he makes sure to find time for such pastimes whenever possible.

“I won’t be home until the later afternoon. However, I am certain that I’ll be back for dinner.” It’s important to share meals, isn’t it. Hannibal grabs an apple and stands, inclining his head as a thanks before he’s heading out, making his way to campus.

It’s sunny and the sky’s clear and blue, though it’s still cold in the mornings, this time of the year. Warm puffs of breath are made visible in the chilly air. The young man wraps the layers of his long, patterned scarf tighter around his neck, shoulders hunching up, attempting to keep out the nippy breeze, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his black coat. It doesn’t work very well, but Hannibal doesn’t look bothered by it as he strolls along the harbor area, leather bag slung around him. It’s not the shortest, but certainly the loveliest way to class, and he often leaves early enough to not have to rush. He’s never late; it’d be an insult to his professors, after all, and that won’t do at all. Rudeness spreads like a sickness; he won’t be the one responsible for an epidemic. The boats sway gently, cool water sloshing against their sides, the salt of it heavy but pleasant in Hannibal’s nose.

On one of the boats, there’s movement. It catches his attention, a subtle arch of his brows that imply mild curiosity. It’s rare that someone would want to go for a trip so early in the day. The boat’s small, its appearance just a bit run down—it differs from the others for this reason. This boat he hasn’t seen before, he’s sure. Practical and functional as it certainly is, it doesn’t speak of wealth and expensive tastes. A young male about his age’s working on it – checking the ropes of the sails, apparently, though Hannibal must admit he doesn’t have much knowledge when it comes to this subject – dark curly locks being played with by the zephyr. The other looks entirely concentrated, bottom lip sucked into his mouth, brows knitted. Hannibal slightly tips his head to the side even as he continues walking, not stopping in his tracks. There’s an animal—a dog, brown and fluffy, resting by his side, snout opened wide as it yawns before it lazily puts its head back onto its outstretched paws, obviously having been woken by its owner and still set on dozing. Its ears twitch some as the blond male comes closer, though it doesn’t care enough to open its eyes.

The other male looks up as Hannibal passes him, probably having noticed he’s being watched, though he quickly ducks his head as he comfirms the eyes on him, frown deepening on his forehead. Despite the discomfort the other shows the blond won’t glance away, pulled in instead of put off by the awkward, somewhat unapproachable behavior, and the edge of his mouth quirks upward. A moment later the other male’s eyes raise, hesitatingly, even though his head remains tilted. Hannibal’s smile widens and he dips his chin as their eyes lock, a silent good morning, though receives nothing but a slight twitch of one dark brow and a swift glance away. He’s not from here. Surely he’s not. The young male’s curious still, but he won’t pause now to pry. He has a class to sit in, after all. The other’s shoulder slump as he realizes Hannibal won’t stop and approach him. He can’t completely tell if it’s relief or disappointment.

The blond smiles to himself as he continues his way. He isn’t one to waste chances; though, he simply doesn’t believe that this has been the first and last one.

Campus isn’t quite as crowded, this time of day. Morning classes aren’t exactly popular among the students, which might be understandable, though Hannibal rarely ever misses one. He’s greedy for knowledge and takes pride in praise and his grades. However, a few of his fellow students are just as diligent, rising early and staying late. It takes effort and time to stay at the top of the class. However, perfectionism demands him to do just that, regardless. Today, there will be several classes and time spent at the lab, as well. A long, but not a tedious day. The blond doesn’t quite understand those who begin and continue something they don’t truly enjoy, something they have to real interest in. They were to become doctors, in the future; he himself wouldn’t want to be treated by someone who has no passion for the field. The professor’s already there when the young male arrives, briefly looking at him as he takes a seat in the front rows, preferring to sit by himself, also to avoid possible distraction. The older man’s skimming through his notes – they’ve taken a test last week, he probably plans on evaluating it today – and his not entirely delighted look lets the blond know that they haven’t managed to exceed the professor’s expectations. Hannibal’s not worried, however; he seldom if ever is, since he’s come here. He’s sure he’s done well. He lifts his hand to greet a few of the other students, those he respects, before the room grows quiet and the professor clears his throat, wishing to begin.


	2. Chapter 2

The second the other male’s passed him, he feels himself arching a brow. Will doesn’t know, himself, if it’s in awe or slight annoyance, and that unsettles him further. He’s—calm. And he’s surprised about that. Will frowns, blue eyes narrowed as though he inwardly curses the stranger without much of a reason, though he startles out of it when Winston, the dog by his side, utters a whiny noise and huffs, glancing up at his owner, noticing that he’s lost in thought. The young male gently shushes him, bending to scratch behind the dog’s fluffy ears, and smiles when Winston’s tail swishes from side to side happily, his head turning so he can nuzzle into Will’s palm. Usually, the brown-haired male needs only one glance to know much more than he wishes to know about those he encounters; someone’s mood, parts about their past, their worries—whatever someone would wish to hide from strangers, Will sees it, whether he wants to or not. He picks up too fast, too much; he can’t stop it. The young male rarely lets anyone know; it tends to scare people off, knowing that he sees right through them. It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved. It’s easier, better, to mostly stay alone. Animals are different. They don’t hide; there’s nothing he could find behind their eyes.

He’s aware that this is why he’s looked twice at that male. There’s been nothing. Nothing he hasn’t been meant to see. A small – or not so small – hint of amusement, interest, though he can’t say in what, exactly. It’s not something he’s used to. Distrust and skepticism, yes, but not curiosity. He doesn’t feel as though he’s been made fun of, though. There’s been no mockery in the other’s gaze, and that’s already more than he normally expects. Shaking his head, Will decides to shrug it off. He’s certain he’s only thinking about this now because he hasn’t had much contact with other people yet, here. Or ever. They’ve just moved to this place, after all. “Come, boy.” The dog stands immediately, barking once, enthusiastically, and follows when the brown-haired male moves to leave the boat. “We should go and have breakfast. And wake him.” Surely his father’s still asleep. It’s early in the morning, after all, and he’s been awake till late at night. The man often is.

He probably can’t sleep well, in his empty bed, Will thinks. No, he knows that’s the reason. His mother hasn’t come with them. She won’t go anywhere, anymore. She is why they’ve left, in the first place. The young male isn’t angry at her for leaving them; it’s not been her fault. Not being capable of fighting against a sickness doesn’t make one a bad person, even if it pulls a family apart. Sometimes he’s neither angry nor sad. Only—empty. He doesn’t blame his father for the changes he’s been going through ever since the day she’s been brought into the hospital, either. He’s been drinking more and working less, which is understandable. His way of coping. Their small house often smells of cheap beer when Will comes home. There’s a subtle sting he feels as he glances back, but only just because he’s being confronted with his goals once more. It doesn’t need a lot of empathy to guess where that male’s been headed. He’s been on his way to campus, definitely. The hour and everything about his appearance’s told Will that much. Studying. For a long time, he’s known what he wants to do for a living. He wants to make use of his abilities; a job in law enforcement would be the right thing for him. If he’s capable of empathizing with their neighbors then he certainly is able to understand someone’s darker secrets and motivations, if they teach him how to look. He could do something useful. He could help. However, he would need a degree for that, and attending classes would be expensive.

Will envies the other that chance. Though, the brown-haired male’s sure that one day, he’ll be able to afford it. He has to be. He’s helping his father wherever he can; the man’s been teaching him about mechanics since he’s been but a child, and Will’s soaked it all up. He’s often helped his father even when he’s still gone to school. Now, he has enough time to properly lend him a hand.

He starts heading home. And quickly stops in his tracks when Winston’s ears perk, furry head tilting to the side, and the dog swiftly rounds a corner without glancing back, obviously trusting that Will would come with him, which he does. Of course he does. A second later he knows what’s caught Winston’s attention. Barely much older than a puppy, a small dog’s looking at him, tail between its legs as it backs away from him, frightened. His first instinct’s to squat down, to carefully reach out and let the tiny animal sniff at his hand, to coax it closer. To take it home. Maybe it would need a few minutes. Maybe it would take an hour. Will wouldn’t mind. But his father’s told him that one dog’s enough. Will wouldn’t be able to hide the animal. It pains him to keep walking, to act as though he hasn’t seen the dog, and he grimaces. Will tells himself he’ll come back later to at least bring the dog some food, even if he wants to give it much more than that. Shelter. A new home. A caring owner. It would have to be enough for now. If he was lucky, the dog would stay in the area. He would do what he could to help it. He’s upset that someone was heartless enough to kick a puppy out in winter; such cruelty shouldn’t exist. For now, he should tend to other things, however.

Lifting his index to press against his lips as he looks at his dog, Will pushed open the front door, quietly. Silence fills the house, just as he’s assumed, and he’ll try to not make too much noise just yet. There’s no use waking the man before breakfast’s even ready, after all. His jacket’s hung up, boots being left by the door. Will crosses the living room, passing the daybed he calls his own, though it’s admittedly also Winstons and the dog swiftly hops onto it to lie down without being scolded, and Will enters the kitchen area. The young male’s still somewhat bad at cooking, but he’s doing his best with the few ingredients he finds. There are a few eggs in the fridge – he hopes they’re still good, though he thinks they are and just shrugs his shoulders – and slightly wrinkled tomatoes. Good enough. He’s grown less uncertain and hesitant, moving about in the kitchen. The brown-haired male fetches salt, butter, and a pan, switches on the tiny, old stove. He lets it heat up, giving the butter a moment to melt, and works on cracking the eggs, cutting the vegetables. Once the fat sizzles he pours the eggs into the pan, pieces of tomato being tossed into it after. It’s a quick and easy breakfast, but it looks decent when it’s done. He’s pleased with it. The young male starts the coffee machine, as well. Then he grabs a mug and makes his way upstairs. Will pauses a moment when he’s reached the door that leads to the bedroom, hand already raised to knock.

Is it too early, still? His father never snaps at him; he isn’t afraid of making the man angry. He’s patient, even-tempered. Nonetheless, at times Will’s worried to do the wrong thing, anyway. He often has a hard time looking into the man’s tired eyes. Though, the young male knows his father would hold wasted food against him more than waking him at not yet appropriate times, so Will makes another attempt, knocks at the door, before reaching for the handle and opening it. He can barely see anything, heavy dark curtains keeping out the sunlight, but he hears how the older stirs, a low groan muffled by the pillow, and then the older slowly sits up, hand covering his face. Will approaches the bed only to place the steaming mug on the nightstand before he leaves again, allowing his father a moment to wake up. They’re both not exactly morning people; however, Will minds getting up early less, knowing that he has to let the dog out. The young male returns to the kitchen, placing a filled plate for each of them on the table. He doesn’t have to wait long; his father joins him moments later, hair a mess and still in his pajama pants and an old shirt, the half-emptied mug in his hand.

“What about the boat?” are the first words he utters. It’s not surprising that the man knows that he’s been working this morning, even though Will’s convinced he hasn’t heard him leave the house. It’s become a normality for him to head out while most people are still asleep.

“Should be running smoothly, again.”

“Good.” The young male’s good at what he’s doing; his father doesn’t doubt his skills in the slightest. “Monsieur Dupin‘s called. He wants his boat checked today afternoon. Around four.”

Will’s relieved. It’s an appointment that’ll pay part of their bills, and the man’s nice enough. Even makes an effort to speak English with them, even if he’s not very good at it. They can’t complain; it’s not their place to even expect such friendliness. At one time or another, they should really try to learn more than a few basics. It’s not as though they can’t communicate at all; regardless, encounters often lead to awkward embarrassment still. Surely there are other mechanics, French people. It’s something that fills them with pride, when someone chooses them over those.

“I’ll be there.”

The older man nods, approving. Will knows that his father feels bad, at times. It’s not an ideal life, and the man’s aware. He does want his son to go to university; he wants him to study and learn, to become what he wishes to be. Of course he’d be happy, watching his son grow up and become a fulltime mechanic. Every father would be pleased to see how their child follows in their footsteps. However, it isn’t what Will wants, and he’d accept that. The boy has greater goals. The rest of their breakfast passes quietly. Monsieur Dupin ends up getting their electricity bill paid and helps them to put a nice dinner on the table. Will spends the rest of the day outside, Winston always by his side. When the work’s done, the young male often enjoys going fishing. It’s calming in a way little else is; it allows him to leave his mind. Only the stream remains, cool water splashing against his boots, keeping him grounded. He’s learnt how to make his own lures, as well. In the evenings, he’s reading. Lying on his small bed in the living room, the dog allowed to rest his head on his thigh, Will soaks up every book he can get his hands on. The young male’s interested in everything - classical literature, modern crime fiction, forensic theories.

Sometimes his father’s worried about him, though he doesn’t say it. Other boys his age are different. He’s different. He’s never invited to parties; the young male never utters a word about friends, or girls he’s talked to. He keeps to himself. Perhaps the man would believe that it’s because they’ve moved, that his son would make friends, sooner or later, but it’s been no different back in America, even when he’s still gone to school. Will’s always been the typical maverick. At times, maybe it has upset him, somewhat. Society tends to make it seem as though one’s teenage years are the most exciting, the most interesting. It makes one feel as though one has missed a great deal of pleasures. There have been no drunken escapades, no necking in someone’s pick-up truck, no laughter and nonsense at the mall, in his life.

Will isn’t unhappy, now. He falls asleep content enough.

And wakes with a start.

Eyes wide open, he feels panic swell in his chest, making it hard to breathe, quick pants spilling from parted lips. He can’t move but he’s trembling, his lashes are damp; he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or tears. Will feels as though he’s broken through ice and got swallowed up by the sea in frosty cold winter. Shivers shake him, gritted teeth clattering—the sweat clinging to his skin feels like icy needles relentlessly pricking into his flesh; his limbs hurt as though he’s been beaten. His throat closes up as though he’s mourning. The dog’s shifting and whining, pawing at him, and he snaps out of it with a gasp. It takes a moment or two before he realizes he’s at home, then the young male takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. That happens much too often; he should’ve grown used to such dreams and sensations by now, but he hasn’t. He isn’t the only person in the world with nightmares, he knows. Though, Will wishes he could have common ones. Falling, running from something invisible. Monsters. But it’s always like this, always painful, always emotionally draining. His dog comes close to lick his face and Will laughs lowly, screwing up his nose. The brown-haired male’s still quivering slightly as he pushed the covers to the side to get up. Winston hesitates for a second before jumping off the mattress to follow as his owner crosses the room and heads toward the door.

He lets Winston out, watches him run about in the field before the house and calms gradually, arms wrapped around himself as he suddenly truly feels the cold of the night air. He should have put on a jacket, at least; he won’t go and grab one, now. Many years ago, Will would get up and make his way to his parents’ bedroom, every now and then, when he’s woken from a nightmare. He would be allowed to sleep in the middle, between them, warm and peaceful and protected. Will doesn’t consider climbing up the stairs to wake his father; he can deal with his issues on his own. He glances up into the sky, still entirely black except for the stars, and flinches when something wet touches his hand. “Are you already done?” he asks Winstons who woofs and pants; it’s probably too cold even for the animal to spend too much time outside. Will’s naked feet’ve grown slightly blue as he finally heads back into the house. The young male eyes his bed with a frown; he wants to lie down, wrap up tightly, hold the dog close and sleep. It’s out of question before he’s showered and changed the sheets. He tries to be silent about it all, and hopes that the rest of the night will be more restful.


	3. Chapter 3

Being a diligent student and receiving good grades are beneficial for one’s career, though if one radiates too much arrogance for it, one’s peers will reject everything one does. No one likes a braggart. Hannibal’s making sure to stay approachable; confident but not haughty, ambitious though no misfit. If he attracts attention, it’s for an accomplishment. The male’s liked and respected by his fellow students – and by his professors. Students around him stand once their last lecture for the day’s reached its end, and Hannibal smiles at a few as the rows grow empty. However, his expression’s falling some as soon as he leaves the auditorium. It’s not as though he dislikes them—no, that’s not it. He doesn’t believe he’s above them all. But when someone barely knows you, their appreciation for your person’s shallow, at best. They don’t have much of a clue of whom he truly is. Of what he is. Hannibal doesn’t roll his eyes at them, though; it’s partly his own fault, and he’s aware of that. The blond doesn’t let them see. He doesn’t have that option.

He strolls along the hallway of the building, intent on returning home now that class was over, until a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. His nostrils flare subtly, but there are too many people around to really detect much of a hint. With slightly knitted brows the young male turns his head, and soon, lips stretch into a more genuine, lopsided smile, shoulders slump. Anthony. Another fellow student, though his field of study’s not medicine. The dark-haired male’s a poet; they’ve crossed ways in a lecture, a few weeks back. Both the speech about ancient literature and the company’ve been worthwhile enough. Anthony’s interesting and charming; though, Hannibal doesn’t consider him a friend. There’s no deeper, real connection between the both of them. Which doesn’t mean that the young male isn’t content being around the other at all; quite the contrary. He enjoys Anthony’s wit – he just knows he can’t be entirely honest with him.

“You appear stressed,” the other comments without more of a greeting, but with a small tilt of his head, looking honestly worried for a moment. The blond waves the statement aside in a subtle gesture that’d look sloppy if he were anyone else.

“It’s been a long day, is all.”

The smallest of pouts settles on the dark-haired male’s lips. It’s obvious that he’d have preferred Hannibal to argue and deny the words; nevertheless the blond knows the other doesn’t wish to hear outright lies.

“Sounds like you won’t come with me to go and grab a coffee together, after all.”

They haven’t done that in a while. And it’s not as though the blond wouldn’t relish the company. However, today simply isn’t the right day for such things; Hannibal already has other plans, something he wouldn’t mention now.

“I apologize, Anthony. Perhaps tomorrow?”

The suggestion easily lights up the other’s face, eyes bright and mouth smiling.

“But of course. After class, then. I expect to find you beneath the birch tree.”

He exhales and nods, the other practically beaming at him which pleases him in return, and they part.

Hannibal takes the same way back home that he’s taken in the morning, to head to campus. The streets aren’t as busy, here, at this hour, though he can look around all he wants, he sees no one he knows or he’s seen before and noticed. Few were out on the water still, on their boats. Waiting for the sun to truly set. The small, déclassé boat he easily recognizes rocks gently, but empty. There’s no one around but the maid, either, when he arrives and opens the door. He greets her politely; she returns the favor, inclining her head, and the young male makes his way upstairs. Hannibal places his leather bag on the desk in the corner of his room, opening it to pull out folders and papers, pens. He could spend some time studying. He’s still an hour left before dinner would be served. He wouldn’t do so. The blond’s determined, eager. Quick. Set on finding what he’s looking for, and fulfilling his plans. They can’t hide. Soon, he’ll have enough information to chase them down. Those who are responsible for—

a cruelty so abhorrent that their very existence is a felony.

And he would end it. They don’t deserve to live, to continue wandering on earth; Hannibal wouldn’t allow it. The blond knows it wouldn’t be a revenge; he wouldn’t avenge himself or anybody upon them. Perhaps, one day, he’ll find out how to turn back time. He’s working on it already, whenever he finds a moment of calm and muse, filling notebooks with different ideas, formulas. He does believe it’ll work, one day. Until time reverses, and he can embrace his little sister once more, he has to wait and work and think, however – their deaths won’t bring her back. Nonetheless, seeing them dead’s necessary, something that has to happen; it’ll bring satisfaction, a righteous deed. He has their tags; he has their names. Now, it’s only a matter of time before he has them. The next one on the list lives farther away than the last; he’ll have to think of a plan to leave home, for a while. First preparations are made.

For dinner, the blond makes his way to the kitchen, punctually as always, finding that his aunt’s not yet there. Instead of taking a seat to wait, he crosses the room to approach the stove, casting a curious glance into one pot. It’s steaming, spreading a delicious scent through the kitchen, and for a moment Hannibal wonders if he should ask for the recipe. The man wouldn’t mind sharing it with him, he knows. Cooking’s quickly becoming something the young male enjoys.

“Hachis Parmentier.” The slightly amused voice of the chef snaps him out of his thoughts, and the young male lifts his head. Hannibal arches his brows, looking at the man expectantly. “A dish made with mashed, baked potato, combined with diced meat and sauce lyonnaise and served in the potato shells,” explains the chef, and the blond male tips his head to the side, his attention entirely focused on the meal being prepared before his eyes.

“What sort of meat is it?” If he had to guess Hannibal would pick beef. He’s getting better at using his senses. Before he can receive an answer, however, the sound of footsteps – heels – come closer. Hannibal turns when Murasaki enters, gesturing for him to sit. She’s put her hair up in an elegant bun; her robe implies that she doesn’t intend to retire after this meal. The blond won’t ask about her plans right away; there are other things she wishes to discuss, first.

“How was your day, Hannibal?” A question he’s come to expect, and has grown fond of. A routine, something grounding. He never wonders if she truly cares about him. Never has to.

“I learnt a lot, and spent time at the lab, as well. I received a decent score for the exam we’ve taken last week.“

The chef nears them to place two plates on the table, in front of them. Hannibal waits for his aunt to pick up fork and knife, first, before doing the same and taking the first bite. Murasaki dips her head to show that she’s listened, then she narrows her eyes, though not in anger. Not in mockery. She studies him for a moment longer before she speaks again.

“Something unusual happened. I believe you’ve seen something that’s caught your interest. Or you met someone new today.”

Not a question, this time, but a statement, and the blond offers a soft smile. Sometimes it seems as though Murasaki can read im effortlessly; perhaps it’s something that should worry him, but it doesn’t. He only wishes he could understand her so well in return. The young male pauses, reaches out, lightly covering her hand with his own.

“Don’t worry, please. Nothing inconvenient nor unfortunate happened.”

It’s not a lie; though since the young male often considers unplanned occurrences as chances instead of considering them as inconveniences, it’ll have to be something terribly bothering for him to view it as such. Maybe it won’t become anything at all, neither a chance nor a trouble; then the blond will merely shrug it off and move on—or maybe he would insist a bit more, this time. She casts him a long, knowing look, then pulls her hand away and stands.

“If you’d like, and aren’t too tired yet, you could accompany me tonight.”

“If you wish me to,” Hannibal doesn’t ask where she intends to take him, simply nodding, and she gifts him with a content smile.

So they’ve gone. He’s showered and changed; Murasaki looks traditionally wonderful in a long silken dress as they enter the museum. There are so many new things he’s seeing today; Hannibal knows he’ll lie awake late at night still, after having returned home. He’s looking forward to it, but stays present. The young male’s familiar already with parts of the Parisian society and they share polite, greeting nods with quite a few other guests, the red velvet carpets thick beneath their feet, muting their steps. Soft instrumental music fills the air; the blond doesn’t have to glance around to know it’s a small orchestra, no canned song.

“Murasaki!”

Both Hannibal and the female pause at the very same time at hearing her name being called. They know this voice; the blond’s nostrils move when the expensive perfume – just a tad too much of it – fills his nose. It’s sweet, a little overbearing, as though one’s stepped too close to a sea of spring flowers. Regardless, he isn’t irritated at her presence, and wears a friendly expression when the ginger-haired woman and her husband swiftly approach them, pushing through a crowd of cackling people. He isn’t displeased at seeing him, either—even though the man works as an investigator, as he’s quickly come to learn. He’s never believed that Hannibal’s done anything wrong.

“Good evening, Madame Beaumont,” the dark-haired woman’s lips easily widen into a welcoming smile as they tilt their heads, cheeks barely brushing. “Monsieur,” she greets the man, as well, allowing him to reach for her hand to lift it to his lips, his mouth never touching her. They’re old friends of Hannibal’s uncle; after his death, they haven’t met much again. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t friendly towards each other anymore.

“How good to see you. I hope you’re doing well? I almost thought we wouldn’t be able to come.”

“You did? How so?”

“We’ve just returned from our trip to Italy,” the female begins, obviously and openly still excited about their vacation. “We’ve visited Venice and Florence. Both are beautiful cities, truly. Not more beautiful than Paris, surely, that’s not possible, but most certainly worth the travel.” That draws the young male’s attention. He’s seen pictures of the Basilica di San Marco, knows of the Galleria degli Uffizi. He’s never been there, though. He wants to. One day, he will.

“And Hannibal, growing into a fine young man, I see.”

She lets him delicately take her fingers, slightly raising her hand, thumb trailing across the back of her hand for but a moment.

“Good evening, Madame. Monsieur. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

“He’s grown taller than you, Murasaki. It’s both saddening and lovely to watch them acquire adulthood, isn’t it.” They think they’re a beautiful couple. They’re right. Murasaki likes pointing out that the blond looks just like his uncle, when he’s been younger. Hannibal knows that it’s true, and he doesn’t disapprove. He also knows some speculate that they’re having an affair, especially so for this reason. He plays along with this rumor happily, his palm resting on his aunt’s back as they and their acquaintances part ways for now. Hannibal smirks. He does adore her; she’s family. He’s felt connected to her ever since he’s come to this country.

There’s champagne, everyone’s dressed to the nines, chatting and smiling, and Hannibal and his aunt walk among them, with their arms linked, appreciating the paintings and idle conversation, the music that’s changing into a faster pace. Everybody’s utterly companionable and pleasant – everybody but one man. He looks down on Hannibal, even from afar; the blond can easily discern it in the way his chin lifts and his eyes narrow. He has short, greying hair, wears an expensive looking tuxedo, yet his body language screams arrogance and disrespect. The man approaches. Gaze fixed on Murasaki now, and that tells the blond that they know each other and that he’s nearing them for her.

“I’d hoped I’d see you here tonight, Lady Murasaki,” are his first words when he’s reached them. The politeness in her expression’s feigned but it’s there, because she’s above causing a scene right here or ever; the older gentleman doesn’t notice. His breath smells of Scotch, costly but it’s been a large sip too much, and Hannibal’s mouth twitches ever so slightly when he grabs her by the hand, dipping his head. His bottom lip crudely skims her knuckles.

“I’m pleased to see you are well, Monsieur Lemaire,” his aunt responds distantly; the man preens under it all the same, oblivious, ignorant. His gaze falls upon Hannibal once more, as though he’s forgotten about the young male all along and has only just remembered he stills exists.

“Oh my, and who are you? Aren’t you a little young and inexperienced to attend a gathering such as this?” The syllables are slurred, yet still understandable. He must be used to drinking, Hannibal thinks. His tone of voice clearly implies that he isn’t worried about the blond’s well-being in the slightest. He isn’t concerned that the young male could find all of this somewhat boring, that he can hardly handle the people who wish to converse  with him. No. He simply doesn’t wish to see him at this event, even though Hannibal’s done nothing to provoke such a reaction—unless the man doesn’t enjoy the thought of not being able to court his aunt. He’s being in the way, isn’t he? The blond male stops himself from tut-tutting; as though he’d ever stand a chance. Hannibal’s glad that the female chooses to let him fight his own battles; she stays quiet, watches them.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but aren’t you a little drunk to not ask your driver to help you retire for the evening?”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Immediately the gentleman’s face turns red, eyes widening, lips pulling back into an ugly snarl. Hannibal remains calm, simpering. He takes another step forward, but moves to fold his arms behind his back.

“May I ask your name, sir?”

His aunt looks like she knows what’s going on in his head. Of course she knows, because it won’t be the first time he’ll go through with what his insticts tell him.


End file.
